Fully Human/Fully Divine

Sometimes, I feel upsets potently but don’t always realize what message they carry until I sit down and feel my feelings. I look into “the mirror” genuinely and recognize what is happening underneath the surface reaction.

Humans are powerful mirrors, especially the ones we care about most. I recently noticed that my love toward people appears to increase or decrease based on their behavior or state of being. My reactions are strongly tied to my historical traumas and hurts. When I mirrored that, I sensed that my love toward myself is also dependent on the way I show up.

I clearly love my Divine Self wholeheartedly, but show up with judgement toward my Human Self, and then I feel the split. My life oriented toward the Divine some time ago, and since then I have tried to live in truth, in love, in consciousness. Yet, my human personality still contains remnants of old emotional wounds, habitual reactions, fears, and conditional responses.

Somewhere along the way, the “spiritual judge” was born. An inner voice that whispers, “You should be beyond this.” It appears when anger or fear arise, jealousy shows up, or old wounds get triggered.

I felt it recently. Someone I love was present with me, and something small, a tone, a look, a barely-there signal, triggered an old story. Within moments I was edgy, snappy, unreachable. I couldn't find love for them, and I didn't like myself much either. The spiritual judge arrived immediately: "You should be beyond this by now." And underneath that — shame. A feeling of being dirty, unkind, small. It wasn't until I sat quietly the next morning that I could see what had actually happened. The trigger had nothing to do with them. It was history speaking. And the harshness I felt toward myself — that was the same split I'd turned outward.

In this pursuit of raising my consciousness, the personality is not meant to be destroyed. It is meant to be seen, understood, and gradually harmonized. The upsets are the material on the path, not the obstacles. Without them, there would be nothing to transform. Mary Magdalene, in the gospel that bears her name, understood this: the spiritual path is not escape from our humanity but its transformation.

My Divine Self acts like a caring parent. It brings awareness and compassion to the Human Self. Noticing the split is a doorway. Seeing it clearly allows it to gradually heal and unify.

Seeing+presence →transformation

Judging →tightening+constriction+fragmentation

We are both Fully Human and Fully Divine, and it is a process to integrate this reality. Offering ourselves compassion, forgiveness, and unconditional love along the way is the way forward and the way now.

Perhaps the path is not becoming something other than human, but learning to love the human we are becoming.

Love is Stronger Than Death

A reflection one year after my mother’s passing

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”
— Gospel of Matthew 5:4

Today marks one year since my mother died after six years of battling cancer. During the final month of her life, I happened to be reading Love Is Stronger Than Death by Cynthia Bourgeault. Looking back, I believe it was the book God placed in my hands to carry me through those days.

I still remember the day she died vividly—the priest who helped us both, the exact moment her soul left her body, and the strength I felt. God was enfolding me in His arms.

My mother was a strong woman, always moving through life with determination and zest. We had our moments, and many times we acknowledged how different we were, but she was always there for me. Always. She showed up for the people she cared about relentlessly. I would go on a work trip and come back to a cleaned bedroom, folded laundry, and my favorite meal. She expressed her love for others through gestures and gifts.

I remember her last Christmas. By then she was in hospice, hardly mobile, but she found a way to engage with the activities coordinator and create a handmade gift for me. It was touching and beautiful. This woman could hardly walk sometimes, yet she would still make cakes for others. We tried to find humor in the small moments—like her making us a coffee cake with cayenne pepper, or burning the pots while making stew because she completely forgot she was cooking.

My mother was very feminine. She insisted on putting makeup on and dressing up every time she went out. Even though the cancer and treatments took much of her energy and mental lucidity away, she still tried. I remember during the last month of her life, I brought a very close friend to visit her. She quickly reprimanded me for not telling her ahead of time, so she could dress up and fix herself. By then she wasn’t leaving the bed unassisted and was mostly sleeping and very confused, but this spark for life kept her alive longer than anyone expected.

She loved her plants and flowers, tending to them with the same care she gave to people. Somehow, they thrived under her hands and seemed to bloom in gratitude, her love returned to her in every leaf and petal.

She also loved photographs. I was surprised that she would ask people to take photos of her even when she was already very sick. Somehow summoning the energy to dress up, go outside, and pose for a photo enlivened her tremendously.

My mother was a hardworking woman. She believed that we must earn our keep, and she was always moving and contributing. When she moved to the United States to be close to my family, she worked odd jobs and sometimes had to walk for miles to get there. She hardly mentioned it. When she came home, she would do even more around the house.

When that became nearly impossible, she struggled deeply but still came up with the idea to make macramé. It had been a hobby of hers when she was younger, so while sitting in her chair in the living room, she revived that creative practice. By then she was heavily medicated. Some days were clearer than others, so I doubted she would remember how to make the knots. But not only did she remember, she made many pieces in different sizes and colors. Then she gave them away to anyone who showed up or helped her in any way. One day, we even had to bring a whole box to the oncology nurses and staff.

That’s who she was.

Death takes our loved ones away, but the memories, lessons, inspirations, and energetic imprints remain.

In the cakes she baked for others.
In the macramé knots she patiently tied and gave away.
In the quiet acts of care that filled a home without asking for recognition.

Love continues through what we have received.

And in this way, again and again, love proves itself stronger than death.

Mother, rest in peace. I love you.

Empty me. Fill me. Use me.

During this Lent season, I have been listening to Hallow, and this prayer returns again and again:

Empty me. Fill me. Use me.

Empty me

This is kenosis.

The Path of Via Negativa. The release of what does not serve. The release of control.

The surrender of image, righteousness, and self-protection.

It is a clearing.

I imagine a forest overgrown with brush- impassable, dense, tangled.

Slowly, intentionally, a path is cleared. Not hurriedly, but faithfully.

To be emptied is to lose what we cling to. Even what once comforted us.

Fill me.

This is the Via Positiva.

The courage to receive.

Receive love.

Receive wisdom.

Receive wonder.

I imagine opening my arms, wide beneath the Sun. Its burning rays not only warming but strengthening. Grace does not only soothe. It fortifies.

Use me.

This is Via Creativa.

Expression. Offering. Participation.

To give without bargaining, To serve without performing. To love without calculating return.

When surrender, reception, and expression become one movement, this is Via Transformativa.

Transformation is not just self-improvement. It is alignment.

Fear multiplies fear. Love multiplies love.

If we desire to change, we must learn how to empty, to receive, to give, not once, but in every cell of our being.

Growing Essence

It took a fall on the ice and a strained arm muscle to learn a few lessons. On Friday, I succumbed to a familiar feeling of being the independent, self-sufficient woman who can cope with all of life’s challenges alone. As usual, pride got in the way, along with some protective mechanisms. The victimhood role was sneaking in, and I recognized it immediately. That space felt familiar, even comforting, more so than opening up and asking for support.

On Saturday, I didn’t have a choice. I was physically hurt and needed help with even dressing. God humbled me.

Essence can only grow in pristine environments, where we don’t lie to others, but even more importantly, where we don’t lie to ourselves. By pretending to be someone we are not, by concealing our inner battles when they are begging to be shared, we fall into the embrace of False Personality. There, movement upward and sideways is restricted. We wind up kicking and screaming within our own cages, with no sight of an exit.

I don’t remember ever being truly taught the meaning of lying. Yes, the slogans of “Don’t lie” were plenty, but did I ever understand the full scope of it? The focus was always on not lying to others, less so on not lying to myself. False Personality is a “continual self-lying, continual pretense, and continual self-hypnotism.” Essence can only grow in truth, and the worst form of lying is pretending. This raises a question I continue to sit with: do I truly know what constitutes “truth”?

In Logion 6 of the Gospel of Thomas, it states:

“His disciples questioned him and said to him, `Do you want us to fast? How shall we pray? Shall we give alms? What diet shall we observe?’
Jesus said, ‘Do not lie, and do not do what you hate, for all things are plain in the sight of heaven. For nothing hidden will not become manifest, and nothing covered will remain without being uncovered.’”

Back to my story: on Friday, I fell into a habitual state of pretending, justified by pride and other self-reasons. It felt manipulative and unkind, yet I remained in it. Later that day, I attended a scheduled Wisdom Circle, where I was nudged to reflect on the message from Jesus. The leader gently stated what I needed to hear, reminding me that God meets us where we are and that His care is personal. I heard the message, agreed with it, but didn’t apply it in real life.

Then, life brought me to my knees. At least, I had a physical reason to ask for help and open my arms to receiving.

What I learned is that if I truly desire my Being to grow and thrive, I must leave behind all masks, games, and distorted narratives. I must fully step into my Authenticity. It is safe to be seen. It is safe to receive. It is a strength to be humble. As Abba Poemen says, “Do not give your heart to that which does not satisfy your heart.”

On Being Right

Once having made the decision to observe myself, I have mostly recently noticed that many times when I feel strongly about something, I need to explain myself and be right. I know it is okay to feel potently about subjects, but I definitely would like to improve the reactionary behaviors and the tendencies to justify myself, so as usual, I am diving into this well.

What I sense is that this habit stems from a deep-rooted closeness with unworthiness. Somewhere and somehow I was hurt when I wasn’t heard or wasn’t seen. Back then, maybe, I didn’t have the words to clearly express myself and on a lot of occasions I was too shy, or self-evaluating and judging how I would sound or be perceived. What started as feeling unseen resulted in self- deprecation.

I learned that in order to be respected, I had to prove my value with words, with justifications, with rationale about my thinking. I had to demonstrate my worth. Small “I”s can only do small things.

When peace is on the line, convincing others of your point is costly. Why go to that length? It is another occasion of leaking your energy and solidifying the facade of the house. This tendency originates from the faulty assumption that we need external validation. We have to wear our gowns of deceit to show this world we exist and that our beingness has weight.

This inability to welcome other perspectives on themes I feel passionate about is showing me that some of my “I”s are quite inflexible, stubborn, and needy. What is the antidote to this smallness? I feel it is grace. It is groundedness. It is embracing myself without hesitation. It is realizing that freedom lies in inner peace.

How do I get there? By noticing these parts and meeting them with love, until they no longer need to hold their old roles. It is being generous with myself and others and allowing room for forgiveness, compassion, and understanding. It is bidding adieu to arrogance and saying hello to humility. Humility here is not shrinking. It’s standing so firmly in Being that agreement becomes optional. So I go….

Why Real Intimacy Requires a Real Person

Intimacy is often imagined as the erosion of boundaries, a merging that promises closeness at the cost of individuality. But this assumption belongs to an undeveloped self, one that relies on separation to maintain coherence. Where personhood is thin, intimacy feels dangerous; where it is inflated, intimacy becomes performative. Real intimacy, by contrast, requires a self that is sufficiently formed to remain present without defense and open without collapse.

A real person is not one who has perfected identity, but one who has acquired gravity—an inner coherence born of lived experience, conscious suffering, and the digestion of instinctual life. Such a person no longer needs to protect a central narrative in order to exist. Boundaries become flexible rather than rigid, permeable rather than porous. Contact can deepen without possession, and difference can remain without threat.

Intimacy at this level is not fusion but interpenetration. Two persons meet not by dissolving into one another, but by allowing their fields of presence to overlap. What is exchanged is not reassurance or completion, but substance. In this way, intimacy does not diminish personhood; it completes it. Only a real person can afford to be truly close—because nothing essential is at risk.

In the Spirit of Love

The move toward “loving everyone” is often framed as spiritual maturity, but without a corresponding Second (Denying) Force it risks becoming unincarnated—wide but weightless. The pair relationship, at its best, is not about exclusivity or possession but about containment: the finitude that generates heat, resistance, and consequence. It is the vessel in which eros is slowed enough to be digested, where jealousy, tenderness, boredom, and desire become raw material for transformation rather than enactment. Universal love may express the First Force, but without the alembic of form it cannot descend into being. The pair is not the destination; it is the crucible.

Trogoautoegocrat

Trogoautoegocrat is a term used by G. I. Gurdjieff to describe a universe sustained by reciprocal feeding: everything lives by consuming and being consumed. Nothing exists in isolation. Human beings, too, participate in this economy of energy—emotionally, relationally, spiritually—often without noticing how and where their life-force circulates. The question is not whether we feed and are fed, but whether what we live is digested into something real. This reflection explores how love, when held with discernment, containment, and time, can become a counterentropic force—one that consolidates being rather than dispersing it.

Containment as Love

Containment is often misunderstood as withholding, repression, or fear of intimacy. In reality, containment is one of love’s most mature expressions. It is the capacity to hold energy, emotional, erotic, spiritual, without discharging it prematurely, exploiting it, or requiring it to resolve itself through another.

Where love lacks containment, it seeks release. It wants intensity, reassurance, fusion, or transcendence. Where love has containment, it can stay. It can wait. It can endure ambiguity without collapsing into fantasy or demand.

Containment is not the absence of eros; it is eros given a vessel. It allows desire to deepen rather than scatter, to clarify rather than intoxicate. Contained love does not rush toward consummation but submits itself to time, form, and discernment.

In a trogoautoegocratic universe, containment determines whether energy is digested into being or dissipated as reaction. Uncontained love feeds identities, dramas, and states. Contained love feeds presence, responsibility, and gravity. The difference is not moral but ontological: one produces repetition, the other produces realness.

Containment always increases responsibility. It requires restraint, fidelity to practice, and willingness to bear the tension of not-knowing. It also protects the beloved, human or divine, from being used as a stabilizer for what has not yet been consolidated within oneself.

To love with containment is to refuse to make another the guarantor of one’s being. It is to allow relationship to emerge from fullness rather than lack, from groundedness rather than hunger. Such love may appear quieter, even less dramatic, but it carries weight. Gravity is its signature.

This is not love diminished, but love matured: love that can remain without consuming, awaken without destabilizing, and give without dispersing what is most essential.

Intensity Is Not Intimacy

Intensity is often mistaken for intimacy because it feels alive. It generates heat, immediacy, and a sense of significance. But intensity alone does not create closeness; it creates activation. Intimacy, by contrast, is not defined by charge but by contact.

Intensity accelerates. It seeks height, fusion, revelation, or release. It thrives on novelty and emotional amplitude. Intimacy slows things down. It requires time, continuity, and the willingness to remain present when nothing dramatic is happening.

Where intensity dominates, boundaries blur. One is pulled toward disclosure, consummation, or meaning before there is sufficient ground to hold it. The result may feel profound, but it is often unstable. Intensity amplifies experience; intimacy integrates it.

In relationships, intensity can create the illusion of depth without the substance of mutual presence. Two people may feel powerfully affected by one another while remaining largely unknown to each other. What is shared is energy, not being.

Intimacy grows through repeated, ordinary contact: showing up, listening without urgency, honoring limits, bearing disappointment, and staying when excitement fades. It is forged less by what is revealed than by what is reliably held.

Intensity feeds hunger. Intimacy feeds trust. One excites the nervous system; the other stabilizes the self. Without intimacy, intensity eventually exhausts itself or seeks escalation. Without intensity, intimacy may grow quietly, but it endures.

To confuse intensity with intimacy is to mistake arousal for love. To discern between them is not to renounce passion, but to place it in service of something more durable. Intimacy does not eliminate intensity; it gives it a home.

This distinction is not moral but ontological. Intensity circulates energy. Intimacy consolidates being. Only the latter makes relationship a place where something real can grow.

Why Love That Lasts Feels Less Dramatic

Love that lasts rarely announces itself with spectacle. It does not rely on urgency, volatility, or continual affirmation to prove its reality. Instead, it settles. It takes on weight. And because it no longer needs to convince, it can appear quieter—sometimes even disappointingly so to those trained to equate drama with depth.

Drama is fueled by instability. It thrives on uncertainty, heightened emotion, and rapid shifts between closeness and distance. These fluctuations stimulate the nervous system and create the impression that something significant is happening. But what is often happening is not growth of being, but circulation of energy.

Enduring love works differently. As trust accumulates, less energy is required to maintain connection. There is less need for performance, reassurance, or escalation. The relationship becomes a place one can rest rather than a place one must continually activate. What diminishes is not love, but noise.

This quieting can be misinterpreted as loss of passion or aliveness. In reality, it marks a transfer of intensity from the surface to the core. Love no longer needs to dramatize itself because it is no longer fragile. It has taken root.

Love that lasts also demands more of us. Without the propulsion of drama, we are left with responsibility, fidelity, and the slow work of showing up as we are. There is no heightened state to hide in, no emotional surge to substitute for presence. What remains is contact—real, imperfect, and ongoing.

Such love may feel less dramatic because it no longer feeds on hunger. It is sustained by choice, attention, and care. Its vitality is not borrowed from excitement but generated from within stability.

This does not mean enduring love is without intensity. It means intensity has been metabolized. What once flared now warms. What once dazzled now illuminates. The fire has not gone out; it has learned how to stay.

In a culture trained to chase stimulation, this kind of love can be overlooked. Yet it is precisely here that something real is being made.

To live fully human and fully divine is not to escape the conditions of our humanity, but to remain within them long enough for love to do its quiet work. Love that lasts teaches this not through intensity, but through fidelity—through attention given patiently over time. As drama recedes, something subtler emerges: a deeper inhabitation of the body, a steadier presence in relationship, a widening capacity to hold both desire and restraint. Divinity is no longer sought elsewhere or projected onto another, but gradually revealed from within the fabric of ordinary life. What feels less dramatic is often more real, as love—faithfully sustained—becomes the means by which being itself is formed.

The Velveteen Rabbit

I was reminded of the old children’s story The Velveteen Rabbit.
The rabbit did not start by being “real,” but became real gradually because somebody loved him for a long, long time.

What it looks like when a relationship of love produces being:

You become more whole, not more dependent.
It does not replace missing parts; it integrates what was already there but fragmented.
You are more functional because of it.

Your capacity for restraint increases.
It always expands responsibility.

You become less special and more solid.
Gravity is a sign of being.

What if, instead of hoping for a beloved to love us so diligently that they make us “real,” we pour that same quality of love into ourselves—patiently, faithfully—until our own being grows?

This does not negate relational love; it matures it, freeing love from the burden of having to make us real.

Love that produces being does not intoxicate; it consolidates.

Artiste Manqué

I have been applying for jobs for the last four months and the rejections and “no” responses were the only correspondence I was receiving. Needless to say, it was demotivating. Many times, I would feverishly apply and imagine myself in these places, only to lose interest at some point and pause. This process forced me to reflect a lot and search for meaning. In coaching and alone, I healed through many upsets, although I just realized what was truly missing in my healing. What was reflected in my reality was a sense of not feeling valued and appreciated. The feeling of being invisible and unimportant was coming to the forefront. With the nudge of a coach, I addressed appreciation toward myself this past weekend, and the more I felt into it, the more I could clearly see it.

The word “appreciation” comes from the Latin root appretiāre, which means “to set a price to” or “to value.”

So, originally appreciation had a commercial or evaluative sense (“to set a price on”), but over time it evolved into a relational and emotional one — “to recognize the worth, beauty, or goodness” of someone or something.

In other words, the word’s journey mirrors a shift from measuring value → to feeling value.

If we look at the etymology again, appreciation comes from ad (“toward”) + pretium (“price, value”). Literally, it means “to move toward value.” So when I speak of a lack of appreciation of myself, I am naming a distance from my own inherent worth — a kind of inward turning away from pretium, from my own value.

This inner movement (or absence of it) can subtly shape the outer world. When I don’t move toward my own value, others, such as potential employers, often mirror that back — not out of malice, but as part of the energetic field of perception and resonance.

It’s not about “blaming myself” for others’ responses, but about seeing how self-appreciation is the root note that others unconsciously tune to. When you reclaim the act of valuing yourself, you restore the natural circulation of appreciation — the inward and outward flow of seeing, honoring, and being seen.

If appreciation means moving toward value, then my current exploration invites the question:

What has “value” meant for me so far — especially in my professional life?

For many of us, value has been unconsciously equated with performance, recognition, or usefulness to others. We come to believe our worth is conditional — proven through achievement or external validation. That’s the “price” part of pretium: our inner system learns to appraise itself like a commodity, not a soul.

But true appreciation — both inner and outer — emerges when we begin to shift from conditional worth to inherent worth. This shift changes not only how you see yourself but also how the world perceives and receives you.

The artiste manqué — the “failed” or unrealized artist — embodies precisely the tension between inherent worth and conditional worth.

The artist manqué lives under the illusion that their worth depends on expression fulfilled — that if the work isn’t completed, shown, or celebrated, something essential is missing in them.
But inherent worth says:

“The divine impulse itself — the yearning to create — is already sacred. The form it takes, or fails to take, does not define me.”

The ache of the artist manqué comes from identifying worth with manifestation, rather than with being.
It is the pain of measuring the infinite by what becomes visible.

That yearning to create — to bring forth beauty, meaning, or truth — is not wrong.
It’s holy energy. But its completion isn’t what grants worth; it’s what reveals worth.

When you remember your inherent worth, creation becomes play, not proof. Expression becomes prayer, not performance.

Then, even when the art is unfinished, even when silence replaces form, you are whole — because the creative fire itself is God moving through you.

• The artist manqué says, “I am not enough because I have not made enough.”

• The artist awake says, “My worth is unshaken; creation is my joy, not my justification.”

I have been moving toward fully embodying the artist awake and stepping into my inherent worth by paying attention to the language I use to undermine myself and consciously reshaping it to reflect my value. I am learning to live from that place —
to speak to myself with reverence, to soften the language that dims my light, and to choose words that mirror my true worth. It is a work in progress, but I am already seeing the results— a gentle unlearning of self-doubt and a remembering of grace.
Yet even now, I can feel the shift like morning light returning after a long night.

And you, Dear One, will you offer some love and appreciation to yourself and step tenderly toward the beauty of your own value?

The Heart of God

It is a sleepless night, and I feel called to dip my heart in the heart of God.

Being a fashion enthusiast, I often receive boutique designs. One of them — a white shirt embroidered with a hot red heart, spilling dark yellow rays — lingered in me long after I decided not to buy it. It felt like a micro version of God’s heart.

It is known we carry our grief in the solar plexus chakra. Grief is the first movement — the downward force that breaks open our control. When we allow it, a reconciling energy arises: compassion. Out of the heaviness of fire comes the softness of water. The soul begins to turn toward others.
Compassion, in Aramaic, means womb — we birth our compassion in the sacral chakra, where we begin to open toward others, to the pulse of intimacy and emotion. Compassion is the alchemy that turns feeling into love. It moves through the womb of creation, washing away judgment, until only tenderness remains. In that tenderness, the heart remembers what it has always known.

What is stored in the heart? Of course, Love.
And if God = Love, then we can experience this love only when we accept God’s invitation to be loved.
It is a consent.
It is a surrender.
It is an emptying out.
That requires courage.

The word courage comes from the French coeur — of the heart.
To step into our courage, we must be willing to have a connection with our heart and with God.
That requires trust.

Trust originates in the root chakra. It is the basic foundation for everything — the ground of safety, stability, and belonging.
The solar plexus, the center of will and personal power, is the bridge between the heart and the root.

The Word of God — or our purest creative expression — arises in the throat chakra. Here the soul begins to speak itself.
Once the Word becomes clear and aligned, consciousness opens into Vision (The Third Eye) — seeing as God sees, perceiving unity beneath duality. This is the center of wisdom.

And at the crown chakra, the journey completes — or rather, dissolves.
It is union, transcendence, and return to silence:
the unbroken circle,
where God breathes you,
and you breathe God.

Beloved Source,
teach me to trust the ground beneath me,
to open my heart without fear,
to speak only what Love would say through me.
Let my body be Your temple,
my breath Your word,
my life Your quiet song.

On a second note, I ordered the shirt with the heart. Who can resist?!

Acceptance

Since I departed from the university and arrived in Bulgaria, I have explored many different timelines. One where I am employed by a non-profit organization; one where I am a creative entrepreneur; one where I go back to what I know in the university environment; and one where I am completely lost and not knowing. The most recent one was focused heavily on applying to university positions in the international education sector. I ventured out of the Midwest and stretched to the East and West Coast, to places that felt prominent and adventurous. I had a couple of hopeful moments that kept me in a state of alive suspense for a few days, but ultimately it ended before it started.

The first opportunity emailed me to ask for my confirmation regarding the salary range. My reaction to it was a red flag (I immediately began envisioning working in an office 9-5, moving through paperwork and staring at a computer mindlessly) that I quickly buried deep within myself. The second one had me spinning in excitement with the signs I was receiving and the emotional support my kids offered. They were rooting for this potentiality, intrigued by the allure of the location.

These two slight glimmers quickly evaporated, and I realized that no matter how much I modify my resume or masterfully craft each cover letter to appeal to each Hiring Committee, the Universe does not see my path in that direction— or perhaps, by applying to prestigious universities, I was seeking validation and overall comfort. Although I realize the limited ceiling of opportunity and growth, the duties feel familiar and the salary appears good enough to support my lifestyle.

The entrepreneurship path was uncertain in terms of finances and direction, so every time I explored it, I quickly negotiated myself out of it. In all the timelines, I experienced some kind of fear. Fear of failure, fear of being an impostor, and fear of scarcity in one— and fears of stagnancy and not complete fulfillment in another.

In the quiet of contemplation, I see that accepting myself requires a creative obedience to the heart. I need to stop following the ego’s need for control and validation— not by retreating into passivity or waiting for a sign but by falling into active surrender. That means treating my heart as an altar and saying “yes” to its subtle nudges before the mind explains them away. It means acting without guarantee; letting beauty guide me; trusting that true alignment is productivity; and allowing the mystery.

To move forward, I had to examine the etymology of the word “acceptance”.

It stems from the latin word accipere which means “to take toward oneself. It implies willingness. It carries a tone of cooperation and humility. In Early Christian tradition, monks and mystics used it to express the soul’s consent to divine will. It was an act of active participation in God’s unfolding. To “accept God’s will” meant not to give up one’s agency but to align it with the Divine flow.

Though the centuries the word morphed into a more external meaning— to accept a proposal, contract, or an invitation. By the 19th century, Emerson and later Jung revived the inner essence of the word: “To accept oneself is to cease resisting one’s own being.” Today, in depth psychology and mindfulness, acceptance has returned to its ancient root meaning: to take toward oneself. Acceptance is the bridge between ego control and divine cooperation. It is opening the inner home’s door. It is the courageous hospitality of the soul— receiving with presence rather than resisting with fear.

This brings me back to the fears lurking around me. I was resisting every timeline with fear of one kind or another. A quote by Einstein whispered in my ear early this morning, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” It spoke to me of my behavioral repetitions. And another one by him, “We can’t solve problems by using the same level of consciousness and same kind of thinking we used when we created them.” This one spoke to me of energetic evolution which might look like this:

• Replacing fear of failure with curiosity about growth

• Replacing the scarcity mindset with the remembrance that my ideas flow from an Infinite Source

• Replacing self-doubt with the simple prayer, “Use me, Lord, as a vessel of your beauty and wisdom” and the remembrance that I am Divine.

I have to accept my Divinity and take toward myself by following the thread not because I know where it ends, but because I trust the Weaver. I choose that willingly and wholeheartedly.

What do you choose?

On Starting

I have and continue to struggle with making myself visible. I keep returning to this familiar block, yet the breakthrough always seems out of reach- especially when it comes to revealing my inner world and my spiritual seeking. God has sent me countless messages gently guiding me to just start, but I always found an excuse why now is not the right time. Last night, my sleep was restless, and I woke up with a deep desire to confront this fear. When I opened Substack, the familiar pattern pressed loudly for me to give in. Then I heard a quiet whisper: “Turn to the Saints…” My body stirred with energy, and I knew- this is the path to follow.

I regularly read the stories of the saints and find the female ones particularly resonant. They are a beautiful inspiration for a virtuous, pure life, one “drenched in God”. After doing some research, I selected the saints whose mission is devoted to new beginnings, overcoming the fear of being seen, creativity, and Divine purpose:

1. Saint Hildegard of Bingen- the Voice of Divine Creativity

   A mystic, artist, composer, and healer, she spent much of her early life in silence until she heard a call to speak and create. She feared being seen, yet obeyed the divine impulse to share her insights. She blesses those who step forward as instruments of light.

   “I am the feather on the breath of God.”

2. Saint Francis of Assisi- Trust in Divine Purpose

   He left privilege behind to live in alignment with truth and love. His presence encourages releasing fear of judgment and stepping into an authentic life.

   “Start by doing what’s necessary; then do what’s possible; and suddenly you are doing the impossible.”

3. Saint Mary Magdalene- Devotion and Visibility

   She is the epitome of sacred embodiment. In her life, she moves from shadow to radiance. She supports those who are called to show their inner truth openly, to lead with love and authenticity, and to stand in their light without apology.

   “She turned toward the light and was not the same.”

4. Saint Brigid of Kildare- New Creation

   She is the patroness of creative people and those tending to sacred spaces. Her energy supports the birthing of new creative projects and communities.

   “The fire of Brigid is the fire of inspiration and the courage to begin.”

5. Saint Varvara- Integrity

   She remained true to her values even under the pressure of her father, demonstrating unwavering courage in the face of danger. Her energy supports when fear of judgement arises- the courage to share your truth even if it feels risky.

   “She stood firm in the light of her own truth, and fear could not silence her.”

I felt I needed to call on all these saints collectively, so I did- and here I am. My heart is full of gratitude and humility. They faced extreme circumstances yet remained true to their True Selves. I honor their paths and choose to follow in their footsteps.

On Virtue

Yesterday was a rather "down" day. Feeling the weight of no job invitations, feeling the desire to go back but no opportunities presenting themselves to do that with lightness, moving through the repetitive motions of the days. I whined, cried, and felt sad. Today, I decided the only way out is through. God always lifts me up. Always. I know how to reach closer to him. It starts with diving into his world- the words of the saints, the spiritual teachers, the gurus, etc. One of the books I borrowed from the library has a saying from Omraam Mikhaël Aïvanhov for every day of the year. The October 3rd saying said that to enter into God's domain we have to clean our slate from negative thoughts and feelings. Reading that felt heavy in the moment. It appeared conditional in its requirements. Sometimes teachings land like a burden if we take them as a command. But if we hear them as an invitation—to let God wash us, not for us to scrub ourselves—it can shift from heavy to freeing. Shortly after, I stumbled upon a free course on "How to Become a Saint". I signed up and already listened to the first lecture and immediately felt uplifted. What do saints have in common? I believe it is their ability to remain virtuous. What if virtue is the bridge between our human struggles and God’s presence?

What is virtue? According to Saint Thomas Aquinas, virtue is a habitual and stable disposition to do the good which makes its possessor good. What is good? Good- contributes toward human flourishing. Evil- hinders it. If we are Divine in Nature, good is that which is in accord with our nature, and evil is that which is opposed to our nature.

The Challenge of Virtue
Virtue is not effortless. To live with integrity, courage, and compassion often feels like walking against the current of our impulses, fears, and disappointments. In these moments, we may be tempted to label our struggles—or the world’s darkness—as “evil.” But as Vaklush Tolev reminds us, evil is simply good that has not yet moved through evolution.

This teaching reframes our struggles. What feels heavy or broken in us is not doomed—it is unripe goodness, still waiting to awaken. Just as a fruit ripens under sun and time, so too do our souls mature under the light of awareness, love, and grace. Virtue, then, is not about condemning weakness or failure, but about trusting the process of ripening. Every step toward patience, forgiveness, or courage is a movement of good evolving into greater good. We do have a major role in this process- to make a choice, to use our will , and always return to virtue. Each return is form of spiritual resilience aligning us with our Higher Self which runs on God’s frequency.

What are the virtues in accordance with our Divine Essence?

Virtues are not merely moral codes to follow or social rules to obey. Sure, God proposed some moral laws to consider obeying, but they are the starting point. The laws of virtue go beyond in intensity. They are the radiant qualities of our soul when it rests in union with God. In our essence, we already carry them. What appears as “cultivating” virtue is, in truth, remembering who we are beneath fear, ego, and conditioning.

From the mystics we learn that love, wisdom, and peace are not acquired—they are uncovered. St. Maximus the Confessor wrote that virtues are “the natural energies of the soul in accordance with nature.” They are the movements of our being when aligned with Divine truth.

The virtues that arise from our divine essence—Love, Faith, Compassion, Wisdom, Peace, Beauty, Humility, Purity of Heart—feel expansive and luminous. They lift us, remind us of our eternal nature, and show us what it means to live as children of God.

Yet, to embody them in daily life, we need anchors—virtues that ground the luminous into the ordinary. The ancients called these the cardinal virtues: Prudence, Justice, Temperance, and Fortitude. They are not separate from the divine virtues but rather their earthly reflections.

• Prudence is discernment. It is the wisdom that sees clearly, separating illusion from truth, so that our choices align with Love and not fear.

• Justice is honoring the divine spark in every being—including ourselves. It is Love expressed as fairness, dignity, and the recognition of each soul’s worth.

• Temperance is harmony. It guards us from excess, helps us walk the middle path, and mirrors the Beauty of balance.

• Fortitude is courage. It is the strength to live in truth even when fear whispers otherwise, the perseverance that keeps faith steady in trials.

The divine virtues inspire us toward the heavens; the cardinal virtues keep our feet steady on earth. Together they form the vertical and horizontal beams of a cross—heaven touching earth through the human heart.

These eternal virtues flow from our Divine Essence:

• Love – the boundless giving of self, rooted in the deep honoring of one’s own essence.

• Wisdom – seeing beyond appearances into truth.

• Faith – trust in God’s unfolding, even in mystery.

• Hope – holding light in times of darkness.

• Compassion – tenderness in the face of suffering.

• Humility – resting in reverence and openness before the Infinite, knowing we are held in something greater than ourselves.

• Peace – the stillness born of union with God.

• Purity of Heart – an undivided spirit, aligned with love above all.

To live these virtues is not to strain but to surrender—allowing what is already within us to move through us. Virtue, then, is not about becoming something we are not, but returning to what we have always been.

Holding On, Letting Go

On Memory, Grief, and Releasing Even the Sweetest Love

Since arriving in Bulgaria after a long sabbatical, I have been revisiting memories from the past through photo albums, people’s stories, and familiar places. One of the places that held many memories for me was the cabin my parents built when I was younger. My father loved it and spent every opportunity he had there. During my first 15 years, I went there each summer, eager at first but increasingly reluctant. I wanted to be in the city with all my friends instead of “meditating” in the hammock. Then, my parents divorced, and I stopped going there. Now that my parents have both departed this earth, I decided to visit although it took me three months being here to get there. This past weekend, my aunt suggested we jump in the car and drive there. On the way while gazing through the car window, emotions welled up, but I still held it together. Once in the village, I felt how the place had lost its energy, its quiet charm.. The downtown shop was shut down. The river where we swam and fished was completely dried out. There was no soul walking around. The school I remembered for young delinquents was closed, but the good news is that it has transformed into an international art retreat during the summer months. I was eager to walk on the familiar path and get to the cabin, and even though I didn’t ask my uncle to give me the key, I wanted to see the place from the outside. On the path through the forest, we met a woman who seemed very protective of her territory and said if we continue on this path, we will walk into her property, and her dog might attack us. She softened once we told her my relationship to the place. Once there, I was shocked by the looks of the grounds and the cabin. I remember the wood planks being shiny cedar that now turned into chocolate brown. The porch fence sagged, the grounds overgrown—its serenity long gone. Everything felt old and broken. I struggled to overlay my old vision on each corner and nook. Peeking through the window, I saw a hat on the table that my father left the last time he was there. I wondered when was his last time in his favorite place. The neighbor’s cabin had different owners, not the ones I grew up with. Once back in the center of the village, I walked up the hill and was touched by the size of the church. That was the biggest and most maintained building in the village. There is a saying that a town’s energy is determined by its biggest structure. The church and the art retreat initiative were the last rays of hope for this place. Then, we left. Shortly afterwards, a potent feeling of being complete in my mission in Bulgaria moved through my awareness. The next day, I had coaching in the evening, and while someone else was healing an unrelated upset, I felt tears welling up, heaviness in my body, and emotions fueling up. The sadness I held in the day before showed up to be resolved. My coach noticed, and as I shared, I realized I was grieving not just my parents—but their good versions I was clinging to. I was holding onto the good memories so tightly like love will never reach me again. When he said that we also have to learn to release the light and loving memories, I struggled and cried like a baby. By clutching past love, I unknowingly blocked the flow of love in the present. Love is never wasted or lost, yet it asks us not to cling. We are asked to let go of everything—even what is most precious—so love can keep flowing. I am still upheaving, but I know this release was necessary to move forward. Perhaps love’s greatest teaching is this: it asks us to cherish, and then to release, so it can keep finding us anew.

What love or memory are you holding tightly to? And what might open if you allowed it to flow into the present?

Unwavering

For years, I wondered if my longings in love made me “too much.” Today, I see them as sacred. Without putting them fully into words, I had quietly sensed my core values in relationship. More recently, I began writing and updating my “love list” for a soul connection—yet I still didn’t truly honor it. That’s when I found myself facing the old dilemma: “Am I asking too much, or being too much?” Upon reflection, I finally understood why.

• Conditioning around Self-Worth- many of us have been taught (especially women and/or highly empathetic souls) to downplay our needs, so as not to be “difficult” or “demanding”. This can reflect an inner reflex to question if our deepest desires are too much.

• Fear of Loss- instead of meeting the fear until it softens, we soften the ask. It feels safer even though it compromises our truth.

• Confusion between “Preference” and “Core Value”- it is not that we are asking them to change their favorite music or food. We are naming alignment with values, priorities, courage. Those are not “extra” requests. They are foundation stones for partnership.

And so the question arises: “If I waver on my core values, why would he hold this love as a priority?” The compromise I make within myself will only echo in him.

A situation presented itself that tested me. My first instinct told me that if I meet the request in its asked shape and form, I will be deviating from my values, yet I entertained the ego for a little while until God stepped in, and I was clear that the choice I am about to make keeps me in a loop of unworthiness pattern. Thanks God, I listened and honored my soul. It felt liberating to choose Me.

Out of this tension, I finally sat down and wrote what my soul knows: the non-negotiables of love.

• Prioritization- God, himself, me, and then everything else. Not “fitted-in”, but central.

• Alignment- not just saying the right things but living them.

• Presence- being with each other in the now, not escaping in the past or future.

• Mutual Courage- both willing to risk for truth and alignment.

• Emotional Honesty- ability to speak truth even when it is uncomfortable.

When I start to feel uneasy, this inner compass helps me soften self-doubt. Instead of asking, “Am I too much, or asking for too much?” I now ask, “Are my non-negotiables being met?” It took me a long time—and moving through the same lesson in different layers—to realize that when I ignore my soul’s whispers, I pay the price: even experiences that seem alluring and memorable at first feel empty. But when I honor these values, I no longer fear being ‘too much.’ I see clearly that asking for truth, alignment, and presence isn’t asking for more—it’s asking for love in its most mature, divine form.

On Dead-End Days

Some days feel like quiet loops. Here in Bulgaria, my rhythm has settled into a gentle repetition: coffee shop mornings, minor shopping for colder weather clothes, lunch, reading, a nap, a walk, cooking, a movie, a little sewing. On the surface, it’s calm, almost peaceful. But beneath that calm, there’s a heaviness, a sense that nothing is moving forward.

Part of this weight comes from my daughter. I see her quiet unrest—her longing for meaningful conversations in her own language, the subtle despair of feeling she isn’t contributing, the sense of being trapped without a direction. Her feelings press against mine, and I feel responsible, protective, yet unable to fully lift the heaviness for either of us.

And then there’s my own pause. The uncertainty of work, of direction, of the next step, presses down in a way that repetition cannot soften. Even hope feels complicated—like seeing a friend in Dublin, a small spark of possibility, becomes tangled in logistics and timing, reminding me that life rarely hands us the easy path.

Dead-end days are not always dramatic. Often, they are soft, insistent, almost invisible. But they are real. They linger in the body, in the thoughts, in the quiet sighs at the end of the day. They remind me that life isn’t a straight line, and that stillness—even uncomfortable stillness—has its lessons.

These days ask me to notice the weight, to breathe into it, and to trust that the next turn will appear. Sometimes the shift is tiny: a smile, a conversation, a moment of clarity. Sometimes it’s unseen, unfolding slowly like a seed beneath the soil.

Maybe the smallest gestures matter most on these days: a deep breath, a cup of tea held in silence, a note to a friend, a walk without expectation. Maybe noticing the heaviness without judgment is enough. Dead-end days are not failures—they are pauses, invitations to rest, to reflect, and to honor where we are. And in that honoring, even the smallest movement forward is a quiet kind of grace.

On Choosing Presence (and Discovering Vaska Emanuilova)

At the end of each day, I pause and reflect on my impressions and feelings. Some days are eventful, even triggering. Others flow seamlessly, with little happening on the surface—but when I look closely, I find subtle lessons waiting to be seen.

Yesterday was one of those days in between. My friend’s arrival brought its own lessons. I was reminded that when we act hastily or try to cut corners—whether to save money or time—we often end up paying more, financially or emotionally. Releasing our energy to unworthy causes always proves painful. And when we postpone joy, saving it for some imagined future moment, we rob ourselves of the present and, in a way, rob ourselves of that future too.

As my friend dealt with the consequences of her choices at the airport, I was faced with a smaller but meaningful decision: Should I wait endlessly for her, growing hungrier and more irritated by the minute, or honor my own needs with compassion? My original plan was to welcome her and take her to a beautiful dinner for her first night in Sofia. But the longer I sat waiting, the more I realized I was putting myself into “waiting mode.”

So I chose differently. My daughter and I went for a late lunch, trusting that everything would work out. And the moment I made that choice, things shifted. The food was delicious, the ambiance inviting, and—just next door—we discovered a gallery I had never visited before.

The gallery was dedicated to the works of Vaska Emanuilova, one of the first prominent female sculptors in Bulgaria. Her art includes portraits, female nudes, figures of workers and ordinary people, as well as both everyday and historical compositions. The experience was unexpectedly moving.

What struck me most was not just the sculptures themselves, but the spiritual qualities I sensed in her journey:

Presence in the process

Sculpting demands quiet attention—chiseling, shaping, being accountable to the material. Her work radiates a soul practiced in presence.

Protecting the inner life

Some of her pieces were never shown publicly, suggesting that truth doesn’t always need visibility, but it does need fidelity.

Reverence for the human form

Her figures carry weight, curve, and vulnerability. They are not abstractions but embodiments of humility and compassion.

Art as service

She left her works to the city, choosing legacy as generosity, allowing her art to live on as a gift for others.

Courage in truth

Even within the constraints of shifting political regimes and artistic expectations, she found ways to remain true to her vision.

Her life reminded me that:

• We don’t need perfect clarity or external validation to be on the right path.

• Even when circumstances feel constraining, we can still hold beauty and authenticity within us.

• A legacy of sincerity and generosity resonates far beyond ourselves.

• Visibility isn’t everything—what matters is presence, truth, and kindness in expression.

And I realized: had I ignored my inner voice and chosen to wait, I would have missed her altogether. By honoring myself in that moment, I was led to an encounter that left me deeply nourished and inspired.

Staying in the Light

When you have planned and expected someone to visit after a long physical separation and they get suddenly sick and have to cancel the trip, how do you remain in the light? Your ego is tempting you with stories of all shapes and colors. It wants you to succumb to the feeling of despair, mistrust, resentment, but …….Why? I feel the ego isn’t “evil”, but it is afraid. Its job is to protect you from being hurt, so when it senses absence, loss, uncertainty, it rushes in with stories, “He’s betraying you. He’s lying. You can’t trust him.” The logic of the ego is this: If I expect the worst, I won’t be blindsided. If I mistrust, I can’t be deceived. If I shut down, I won’t be abandoned.

But here’s the paradox:

• In trying to protect you, the ego keeps you trapped in fear.

• It mistakes vigilance for safety, when in truth, only love is safety.

• It feeds despair because despair feels like control—“at least I know the worst.”

Your higher self, though, knows another truth: that love is stronger than fear, and God is stronger than chaos. The ego doesn’t trust this, because it cannot see beyond time, absence, or circumstance. So when those tempting stories come, it helps to say gently:
“Thank you, ego, for trying to protect me. But I choose trust. I choose love. I don’t need your stories to keep me safe.”

The real work is not to fight the ego but to tend it like a child who is scared. Then it softens, and your soul can take the lead again.

Rooted in Love

When fear rises,
I pause.
Hand to heart,
breath like prayer.

“God, let me be rooted in love.”

Tears may fall,
yet roots hold me steady.
Love flows upward,
stronger than the storm.

I did ask God to teach me Trust. Well, he always teaches me through lessons. I am presented with a situation which gives me a choice. It is like a fork in the road. Do I walk on the fear or love path? I have learned that Love is only real, so I am choosing wise.

The Forgotten Chapel

There is a particular joy I feel when I create—when words, images, or forms flow through me and the world falls away. In these moments, I am suspended in a space between ordinary consciousness and something larger, something alive. Tolev calls inspiration “one interrupted biological state,” a fleeting suspension that allows impulses from other realms—or even from past consciousness—to descend into our hands, our minds, our hearts. This is the moment when art becomes more than expression; it becomes revelation.

Art is a living conduit. It carries energy, insight, and resonance that can awaken the observer, transform the creator, and touch the divine. Flowing in creation is not just joy—it is attunement, alignment with higher vibration, and the harmonizing of our inner forces. Active desire, passive reflection, and the neutralizing spark of love converge in every brushstroke, every note, every word. In these acts, we co-create with God, with the unseen, and with the eternal fire waiting within.

And yet, I have noticed a shift. A gallerist once told me that in Varvara, people are more interested in restaurants and pubs than in galleries. That struck a chord of sadness in me. It reflects a wider reality: society has turned away from Art, and in many ways, from the spiritual impulse itself. Energies that once flowed toward contemplation, creativity, and resonance are now redirected toward consumption, material gain, and immediate gratification. The sacred channels that feed inspiration remain, but fewer are attuned to receive them.

Why, then, do some of us still resonate with Art? Why do some hearts still gravitate toward beauty, toward creation, toward the living spark of inspiration? I ask this with humility. I assume it is because we consciously and diligently work on ourselves, remember our Union with God, and nurture our inner resonance. We allow ourselves to feel, to attune, and to open to messages that flow through us. Flow, in this sense, becomes a spiritual practice, a living bridge connecting human and divine energy.

Art, in its deepest sense, is a call back to resonance, a reminder of our higher potential. It is the eternal dialogue between the soul and the cosmos, a channel for messages that might otherwise remain unexpressed. Even when the world seems distracted or indifferent, the act of creation preserves these channels, sustaining beauty, insight, and spiritual vibration.

And this is why the outer world matters too. Veneration cannot live only on the canvas or in the gallery—it must flow into the streets, the rivers, the cities, the very ground we walk upon. When reverence is alive in us, it expresses itself not only in creation, but also in care.

Walking down the streets in Veliko Tarnovo, I was struck not by the old stones or the curves of history, but by the trash rolling carelessly across the road. Trash cans stood everywhere, and yet people tossed their waste where they stood. It pierced me—not only as neglect of the city, but as a sign of something deeper.

When a person is connected to their soul, to God, a natural respect flows through them. They cannot help but treat their surroundings as sacred, because the outer world is a mirror of the inner life. To tend to the street is to tend to the temple of creation. To honor beauty outside is to honor the beauty within.

But when we forget our essence, when we live only in distraction and hunger for what is next, awe slips away. Streets, rivers, forests—everything begins to appear as mere utility, not mystery. Trash on the street is not simply laziness; it is the echo of a deeper disconnection: This world is not sacred. It does not matter.

And yet, it does matter. It all matters. Every stone, every tree, every breath of air. We are entrusted with creation, and our care—or neglect—reflects our remembering or forgetting of this truth.

Perhaps that is why I feel sorrow when I see neglect. Because I also glimpse the hidden beauty of what could be: streets alive with color, cities tended with love, a people walking in harmony with God and soul.

For me, the invitation is clear: to keep remembering, to keep creating beauty, to keep tending—even in small ways. Because each act of care restores a thread of reverence, and each thread strengthens the fabric that binds us back to God.